At least most of the time: It was possible to stand in a place that was out of range of her peephole. And the person who was there today was doing that. But she did recognize Mr. Jake Dillon's yellow Packard 120 convertible in the parking lot. It stood out like a rose in a garbage dump from all the junks there... including Dawn's 1935 Chevrolet coupe.

She wondered what he wanted. But then, that wasn't all that hard to figure out. So the question was really how to give it to him. How coy should she appear? Probably not very coy at all, she decided. They'd understood each other right from the start. She scratched his back by being nice to the kid he brought home from the war, and he scratched hers by getting her a film test. A really good film test. Which meant she owed him. And now he was coming to collect.

So what was wrong with that? She'd been around Hollywood long enough to know all about the casting couch. And having Jake Dillon as a friend certainly wouldn't hurt her career any. And she certainly wouldn't be the only actress who was being nice to Dillon. Veronica Wood was screwing him.

I wonder if she 'd be pissed if she found out I was doing it with him, too.

She called, "Just a moment, please!" And then she went to the door and unfastened the chain and all the dead-bolt locks you needed in a dump like this to keep people from stealing you blind. As she was finishing with that, she had a final pleasant thought: Three weeks ago, I couldn't even get in an agent's office. And here I am about to do it with Mr. Jake Dillon and worrying if Veronica Wood will be pissed if she finds out!

"Hello, Dawn, darling," Miss Veronica Wood greeted her. "I hope I didn't rip you out of bed or anything?"

"Oh, no," Dawn said. "I'm really surprised to see you here, Miss Wood."

"I had a hell of a time finding it, I'll tell you that," Veronica said. "Can I come in?"

What the hell does she want?

"Oh, of course. Excuse me," Dawn said. "Please come in. You'll have to excuse the appearance of the place...."

"I've lived in worse," Veronica said, and walked to the card table and picked up one of the photographs.

"Isn't that Mr. Dillon's car?"

"Yeah. They finally got it fixed," Veronica said. Then, tossing the photograph back on the table, she said, "Not bad. Who did that, Roger Marshutz?"

"Yes. Yes, he did."

"He's a horny little bastard; keep your knees crossed when you're around him. But he's one hell of a photographer. He did a nice job with your boobs on this one."

"I liked it," Dawn said.

"You'll pass them out on the war bond tour, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"I thought so. I was over at Publicity just before I came here, and they were signing mine."

What the hell does that mean?

"Excuse me? I don't quite understand."

Veronica looked at Dawn as if her suspicions that she was retarded were just confirmed.

"The girls, the girls in Publicity, were signing my handouts."

"Oh."

Of course, Veronica Wood is a star. Stars don't autograph their own pictures. How the hell would the fans know if the real star had signed them or not? I am not a star-at least not yet. And that's why I'm signing my own photographs. What the hell, I sort of like signing them. But this will be the last time. Next time the girls in Publicity can sign "Warm regards, Dawn Morris" two thousand times. They probably have nicer handwriting than I do, anyway.

"Can I offer you something to drink?"

"Have you got any scotch?"

"No, I'm sorry, I don't think I do."

"Then I'll pass, thanks anyway."

"I know I have gin."

"Gin makes me horny, and then it gives me a headache," Veronica Wood said. "I don't like to get horny unless I can do something about it. Thanks anyway."

"Is there something you wanted, Miss Wood?"

"No, I was just in the neighborhood and thought I'd pop in and say 'howdy,' " Veronica said, meeting her eyes. "I wanted to talk to you about Bobby."

Bobby? Who the hell is Bobby? Oh.

"Corporal Easterbrook, you mean? What about him?"

"Actually, Lieutenant Easterbrook," Veronica said. "They gave him a commission. You didn't know?"

Dawn shrugged helplessly. "What about him?"

"Now you and I know why you were screwing him at Jake's place," Veronica said. "But I don't think he does."

"I don't..." Dawn began.

"Let me put it this way, Dawn darling," Veronica interrupted her. And then she changed the entire pitch and timbre of her voice, sounding as well bred and cultured as she did in her last film, where she played the Sarah Lawrence-educated daughter of a Detroit industrialist who fell in love with her father's chauffeur. It earned her an Academy Award nomination. "As you take your first steps toward what we all hope will be a distinguished motion picture career, the one thing you don't need is to have me pissed at you."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I like that kid," Veronica said, her diction and timbre returning to normal. "He's a good kid. He's been through stuff in the war you and I can't even imagine, and he's just dumb and sweet enough to think that you were screwing him because you liked him."

"I don't know what you're driving at," Dawn said.

"Yeah, you do. It's time for Bobby to get thrown out of your bed. And don't tell me you haven't thought about it. You couldn't keep it up if you wanted to. Even in his lieutenant's costume, he looks like a little boy. You can't afford a reputation for robbing the cradle, either."

"He is young, isn't he," Dawn said. "And he's so sweet!"

"So," Veronica said. "The question is how to let Bobby down gently. You want to be an actress, act. You figure out how to do it. Just keep in mind that if you don't do a really nice job of letting him down, you will not only break his heart, but you will really piss me off. You really don't want to do that."

Dawn had her first rebellious thought, and it was not entirely unpleasant: Jesus, is it possible that she's looking at me as a threat to her? Of course it's possible. But I'm not as vulnerable as she thinks lam. The studio has plans for me-based on my screen test, and on the fact that Shirley Maxwell liked it. She may have an Academy Award nomination, and she may be screwing the ears off Jake Dillon, but she doesn't come close to having the influence Shirley Maxwell has on her husband. And he runs the studio!